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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26865190">illiterate unless it's you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/fixwithgold/pseuds/fixwithgold'>fixwithgold</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Whumptober 2020 [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Martin Blackwood's Poetry, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Whump, is it really my fic if nobody cries, past bad parenting, sobbing uncontrollably onto your partner until you get tired</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 18:33:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>594</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26865190</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/fixwithgold/pseuds/fixwithgold</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Whumptober Day 6<br/>Prompt: Please...</p><p>Jon doesn't understand poetry, but that won't stop him from loving Martin's. Unfortunately, Martin doesn't know that.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Whumptober 2020 [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947046</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>illiterate unless it's you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"I've been working on some new poetry," Martin said. Jon finished the paragraph he was reading and reluctantly tore his gaze from his book to look instead at Martin, who was sitting on the other side of Daisy's safehouse sofa.</p><p>"Oh?"</p><p>"It's always nice to have a new setting for writing in. A different muse, you know?"</p><p>Jon smiled. As much as he didn't understand poetry, Martin's enthusiasm for it was contagious. And Jon certainly preferred Martin's writing to anyone else's.</p><p>"Here, tell me what you think," Martin said, flipping to a page in his notebook and passing it over to Jon. "This one and the three after it are new."</p><p>Jon skimmed the first poem, then read it a second time to absorb all the nuance and detail. He repeated the process with the other three, then passed the book back to Martin.</p><p>"Well, I doubt I'm the best person to ask—" he began before Martin interrupted.</p><p>"Can you just tell me it's good, please? It doesn't have to be true, just—"</p><p>A drop of water hit the page. Jon looked up in alarm to see that Martin was crying, his shoulders bobbing up and down with silent sobs.</p><p>"Martin, I—"</p><p>"No, I'm sorry, it was a waste of time," Martin cried, putting one hand over his eyes and wiping the mess of tears away. Or, he tried to. Mostly he just smeared them across his face.</p><p>Jon sat back against the arm of the sofa, his hands raised helplessly for a moment before his brain started working again. He moved across the couch over to Martin and gently took the notebook from his hands, setting it safely behind himself, then wrapped his arms around Martin. He didn't push away or protest, instead allowing Jon to drape one leg over his own and tuck the other behind him. Although technically Jon was on his lap, it was the closest he could come to holding Martin without making him get up and change positions.</p><p>They sat while Martin cried, no longer bothering to wipe away the tears that dripped down his face. Jon held tighter and hoped that he could absorb some of the wracking sobs that shook Martin's body and steal some of his sadness away, even if just enough to let him see himself how Jon saw him.</p><p>Martin tried to explain when his cries died down to the occasional sniffle.</p><p>"I've never really, um, never really had anyone like my poetry," he hiccuped.</p><p>Jon reluctantly unwrapped his arms for just a moment to snag the box of tissues from the side table and set them in Martin's lap.</p><p>"Nobody at all?" he asked.</p><p>"No; I mean, I stopped showing my mom after a while because she'd just kind of 'hmph' at it, and I was always too nervous to join a club or anything like that."</p><p>Jon hummed in understanding.</p><p>"So when I started to say I don't know much about poetry," he started.</p><p>"—I guess the, uh, the ol' brain wanted validation and assumed it wouldn't get any like every time before," Martin finished, laughing sadly as he did so.</p><p>"Can I kiss you?" Jon asked.</p><p>"Mm." Martin turned his head so he could.</p><p>"I don't know a thing about poetry, Martin, but I know that I love yours, and I love you," Jon said when they broke apart. "I'll tell you that as many times as you want and it'll never stop being true."</p><p>Martin smiled.</p><p>"That rhymed," he teased. "Maybe we'll make a poet out of you yet."</p><p> </p>
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